


A Most Unusual Soiree

by zelempa



Category: Philo Vance - Fandom
Genre: Bondage, Multi, Orgy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-29
Updated: 2008-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-05 12:39:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zelempa/pseuds/zelempa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To state that he was merely homosexual would, I fear, do a grave disservice to the truly dedicated Vancian scholar. Vance's personal psychology was much more complex than any one word yet devised by the so-called "Community" could adequately convey. I daresay even I never knew the true extent of his diverse predilections.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Most Unusual Soiree

**Author's Note:**

> Philo Vance is a popular-in-the-1920s pulp murder-mystery amateur detective, whom my brother discovered by googling the phrase "effete detective." I'm a big fan of people who are effete, detectives, and particularly effete detectives (evidenced by my love of Lord Peter Wimsey, Sir Percy Blakeney [admittedly more of an adventurer than a detective] and many interpretations of Sherlock Holmes), so after reading online complaints that Philo Vance was _too_ effete, he rightly assumed that this guy would be right up my alley.
> 
> You guys: Philo Vance is _too effete._
> 
> Vance, of course, has all the trademarks of a Blakeney-esque trivial rich impeccable-taste type guy; he is always smoking and raising an eyebrow and/or drawling things languidly. He speaks with an English accent even though he is American. He says things like "eh, what?" and "my dear chap". Once in the first book he sighs, "_Eheu_!" Most of his dialogue is jam-packed with apostrophes, ie. "Pos'tively illuminatin'!"
> 
> I need hardly tell you that Vance wears silk dressing gowns and slippers at home, or suits with lavender cravats if he's going out. Long after a lengthy description of his physical appearance, which includes the exact measurements of his face, it is mentioned offhand that he wears a monocle. Because, _of course_; I don't know why I didn't assume it immediately.
> 
> The novels are narrated by Vance's "inseparable friend" Van Dine (the pen name of the author is S.S. Van Dine), who only interrupts the third-person narrative with "I" statements in order to launch on some panegyric on Vance's greatness. (Vance is good at everything and knows everything, though his one abiding passion ["if a purely intellectual enthusiasm may be called a passion"] is art. Also, he is very handsome.) For most of the book, Van Dine is silent and completely unobtrusive; sometimes he even forgets to explain why he is present at what should probably be private meetings between Vance and some law enforcement guy and/or suspect.
> 
> The queer subtext is not only laid on with a trowel, but it's more or less text. "I trust you won't wear a green carnation," grumbles Vance's friend Markham, the grudging but tolerant district attorney, when Vance dresses up unnecessarily for a crime scene. Shortly thereafter, when Vance teasingly asks him about crime scene manners, he seems to imply that Vance likes orgies. (I mean, can you think of another reading for this passage?
>
>> "What is the etiquette of these early-morning murder functions, aside from removing one's hat in the presence of the body?"
>> 
>> "You keep your hat on," growled Markham.
>> 
>> "My word! Like a synagogue, what? Most int'restin'! Perhaps one takes off one's shoes so as not to confuse the footprints."
>> 
>> "No," Markham told him. "The guests remain fully clothed--in which the function differs from the ordinary evening affairs of your smart set.")
> 
> All this would be fine and dandy except that, despite Van Dine's protestations, Vance is clearly a jerk. He is cavalier and callous and seems to subtly or not-so-subtly dislike everyone. He's worse than useless as an attaché of the police: he takes delight in pretending to be a nuisance. In the first book, he figures out the case immediately (because he's just so smart), but refuses to tell Markham, electing instead to smile cryptically and raise his eyebrows in mock surprise whenever Markham figures out a clue. He even goes so far as to write up a false accusation of an innocent suspect just to make Markham think the wrong thing for longer.
> 
> Anyway, the upshot of all this is that I've written a Philo Vance fic. Partially, of course, this is a desperate gambit to finish my 12 in 2008. If you're familiar with Vance, or if you found the above description "inf'nitely amusin'", you might enjoy it!

In committing to the page the astonishing adventures of Philo Vance, who for a period of four years, while it amused him to do so, devoted to the New York City police department the fruits of his brilliant observations and natural wit (four of the most exciting years of my life), I have purposely neglected, in the interest of privacy, decency, and friendship, to convey the details of his personal life to which I was privy. Certainly this omission has not sprung from lack of interest. Vance, a well-known socialite, was, at one time, the subject of a great deal of speculation. My position as his biographer conferred upon me a sacred duty, I always thought, to impress upon the public the extent of his service to the city, not to pander to the perverse appetites of the lowest common denominator. Vance certainly refused to answer any direct personal questions put to him by the ill-bred and ill-mannered; and so, I thought, must I.

Yet my chronicle of Vance's life and person has been so thorough in all other respects that it seems pointedly dishonest to pass over information about his psychology, his feelings (I will always be among those who argue that he did, in fact, possess them, on occasion), and his relationship to me. I admit that I have gone so far as to deliberately misaccount for the dispensation of his time; or to recount relevant conversations in different settings and circumstances than those in which they actually took place. I have always argued to myself that the true details were irrelevant; and would have unnecessarily publicized what ought to have been private.

Vance is now dead; and I am old and sentimental. While the former fact is, I admit, insufficient reason to pry into a man's personal affairs, the latter will, I hope, excuse me somewhat; particularly as I have no plans to publish the words which I now set to paper; and I urge anyone who is not me to set this document down now, and leave it unread, no matter how intensely the prior paragraphs have piqued your interest.

Although Vance has been some time inaccessible to me, in the wilds of Italy, news of his death intensifies the pain of his absence, an ache which has for some time sat heavy in my heart. In reviewing the original notes and case documents for the Bishop Murder case, I came upon a note which he had dashed off to me before leaving on a weekend abroad.

_Van old th.--_

'Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.' (AYLI.IV.i.81–92) Remember that, will you, and forgo the customary apoplexy. I have toddled off to Oxford for a bit of potting practise. Of course I did not ask you to come, for I am sick to death of looking at you; but stay your hand from the misericorde, and for heaven's sake leave the wakizashi in your obi, for I shall in due course return to you, and rain a thousand burning kisses on your upturned (downturned? for you are the taller) face and all that rot.

Yr. hum. srv. PV

It is precisely this sort of amusing and illuminating expression of Vance's inimitable _je ne sais quoi_ which I have hitherto neglected to share with any living reader.

To state that he was merely homosexual would, I fear, do a grave disservice to the truly dedicated Vancian scholar. Vance's personal psychology was much more complex than any one word yet devised by the so-called "Community" could adequately convey. I daresay even I never knew the true extent of his diverse predilections.

Perhaps the best explanation I can give would be a description of the night I began to understand all this; the fateful night of August the fourth. It had been six weeks since Vance began his career as an amateur criminal investigator, and, as he had allowed me to accompany him on all his most exciting exploits, I had begun to think of myself, not as his hired legal aid, but as his friend and faithful partner.

That evening, however, I acted chiefly in my role as lawyer, as I spoke to Vance about the insurance I wished him to purchase on his collections of art and furniture. I worried that his apartment would one day go up in flames, leaving him several million dollars the poorer. Vance wouldn't hear of such a thing; the loss to the world, he said, and to his own personal feelings, would be so devastating as to overshadow the monetary loss completely. Still, I wished him to take some precautions.

"You live your life too carelessly, old friend," I said. "Take this Louis XIV dining-table. It is a beautiful, rare, and precious thing, and yet you treat it like any ordinary table, of the kind you might get at a thrift shop for fifty cents."

Vance looked up from a tome on poisons and lifted a flower-dotted coaster between his long fingers.

"You should cover it in glass, and keep it out of the way, in an unused room."

"It is my table, and I shall use it as I please," said Vance obstinately. "Louis XIV had un'mpeachable taste. It is the most c'mf'rtable table in the house."

"If you will excuse me, sirs." Currie, Vance's valet, stood by respectfully, bearing a fly-leaf. He had been flitting about for the better part of the evening, lighting candles and setting out silver. Obviously Vance was to host one of the many "unconscion'bly dull soirees", as he described them, that he seemed to believe were his unavoidable obligation.

Vance and I took our glasses and retired to the sitting-room. Vance yawned pointedly, but I refused to take the hint, and poured myself another glass of brandy from the decanter on the occasional table. I admit I hoped my visit would run so close to the hour of the party that Vance must needs invite me to stay. I had never seen Vance in his social element, and I longed to observe him in every aspect of his life. I felt, also, that the presence of a friend might lighten the burden of his duty. I was dressed well, but if my costume did not meet Vance's exacting standards I knew I might easily borrow something of his, for we were much of a size. In short, I saw no reason that I should not be invited unless Vance were ashamed of me, and so, when Currie gave Vance an almost imperceptible nod, and Vance stood and said, "Now you must go," I took personal offense.

"I say, old man," I said. "You might at least pretend to like having me around."

"My dear Van; I should rather have you than a dozen of these intermin'ble gatherings," Vance purred, brushing my arm fondly. "But one is required to entertain those who have entertained him: and so."

"Have not I entertained you?"

"Most certainly! most certainly! I am entertained daily by the expressions on your charmin' face," Vance chuckled. "Trust me, dear boy; this ain't the occasion. You should feel very out of place and miser'ble indeed."

This I took to mean that I was of lower class and lower breeding than his friends. I seethed. Had I not been educated at Harvard, the same as Vance? Was this not America?

The bell rang, and Currie stood frozen, awaiting Vance's orders. "Oh lord!" Vance murmured. "You shall have to run out the back. Do go, there's a lad," said Vance, ushering me through to the back-kitchen. As Currie admitted the newcomers, Vance slipped down the back-hallway into his study.

I am not proud of what I did next. Instead of exiting through the back door, as Vance had instructed, I counted to ten, and then tiptoed quietly back through the dark back hallway. I could hear Vance emerging out into the main hall and greeting his guests. He had quickly thrown a white cravat and dinner jacket over his crisp white shirt. I slipped into the study. Fortunately for me, both entrances--the entrance on the hallway and the entrance on the front dining room--were slightly open, and I could easily enter the one without making a sound, and peer through the other to witness the events which Vance thought would be so above my station. From my vantage point I could see the proceedings quite clearly. Vance, of course, looked impeccable, despite the haste of his ablutions.

The first guests were two gentleman and a lady, all very beautiful and fey, with pixieish faces, short-cropped dark hair and deep black eyes. They were immaculately attired in tuxedos and a long black evening gown. Currie took their overcoats and stole and they alit upon Vance's chairs and couches and began to make unremarkable small talk. So far, I saw nothing that would have baffled my manners.

The room was soon full of strikingly lovely guests. Men strongly outnumbered women. Most were dressed with perfect taste; but some had made strange choices. One man had completely plucked out his eyebrows and drawn in new ones, exaggerated arches which gave him a permanent look of astonishment. One of the later guests to arrive was a lovely lady with crimson lips and a cascade of golden tresses--dressed in a crisp white tuxedo. I realized all of a sudden that her partner in conversation, the strikingly tall woman in the shimmering gown and pearls, was not a woman at all. These were Vance's "strange" friends. I had known, I think, that he must have had such associations; for even I, though relatively pure-minded and innocent, could not be blind to the natural conclusion suggested by his mannerisms and consistent disinterest in women. I had not quite drawn the same conclusion about myself. Still, I did not remove myself from the premises as soon as I understood why Vance had excluded me. I was fascinated.

Vance took a seat at the piano and began to play.

"I say, Vance, old dear," called a blond-haired gentleman with a sparkling cravat and an orchid behind his ear, reclining on a divan and sipping wine, "didn't you invite my friend Markham?"

Vance came to a stopping place in his music and turned to fix the orchid with a contemptuous smile. "John Markham," he said, drawing out the name with such a lusty delight that I found myself embarrassed on the district attorney's behalf, "is much too prim and proper to associate with the likes of you."

"You mean he is pretending to be straight."

"He is pretendin' no such thing," said Vance, evidently affronted by the very suggestion. "One need not be straight to be on the straight and narrow. I think," he added, with a mischievous smile that belied his words, "we all ought to admire him."

Several guests laughed. Vance launched into a jaunty tune.

"Markham is a bore," declared the pixieish woman. (I was almost certain this one was, in fact, a woman.) "I'm much more interested in your protoge--the legal aid."

"I should like to examine his briefs," the orchid smirked.

The music ceased all at once. "Leave him alone," said Vance, his voice uncharacteristically sharp.

"Come now," scoffed the eyebrows. "Have you seen the way he looks at you?" Suddenly I saw that I knew this man--though I normally saw him without the lipstick, and with unremarkable eyebrows and a pince-nez. He was none other than Tracy, one of Markham's legal assistants. "He wants you, Philo."

"He is not alone," remarked the orchid.

In my hiding place, I grew uncomfortably hot in the face. Was that how I appeared to the outside world?

"Now, now. Such base thoughts have cert'nly never crossed his mind--his _conscious_ mind," said Vance. My head swam in confusion. Did Vance, the expert in psychology, know something I did not?

"In denial," someone remarked.

"And perfectly charmin'ly so," said Vance. In a deep, dreamy voice, he wondered, "Cannot one bastion of purity remain in this world?"

"No," said the pixie shortly. "I tire of this talk. Take off your clothes."

Vance heaved a sigh, put down his glass, and rose to his feet, undoing his cuff links as lazily and unconcernedly as if he were alone in his private dressing room; while the others erupted in cheers around him.

"No visible marks this time, if you please, eh what?"

Trailing accessories--a cravat here, a handkerchief there--he sauntered in the direction of the dining room. Most of the party followed him, but some remained in the sitting room in pairs or triads, chatting privately. I suppose I ought to have averted my eyes the moment Vance began to disrobe, but instead I instinctively strained to see through the French doors and into the dining room. The throng of partygoers obscured my view of Vance, but I plainly saw the pixie woman remove several lengths of black silk cord from her handbag and distribute them among her male compatriots. Grinning wickedly, they pressed to the center of the crowd--to Vance.

Just then two sets of skirts brushed by my face, and I ducked backward under a table. The study was luckily dark, and the entrants did not observe me. They were, at any rate, too busy giving each other loud smacking kisses and falling onto a couch. I shut my eyes as I crouched beneath the table, doubtless some childhood instinct to shield myself from the view of the world by removing the world from my view. My heart hammered such that I was certain the fellow-occupants of Vance's study would hear me quite plainly. But they did not; they did not seek to hear anything above their own soft giggles and lover's murmurs. I tuned them out and tried to hear what was happening in the next room. For the most part, the cadence of their dry remarks and droll chatter sounded no different from any other dinner party. There was no sign that they were crowded around a bound socialite.

Then I heard a cry of pain--a voice that was unmistakably Vance's, although I had never heard his voice sound so uncontrolled. No longer caring if I were seen, I burst out from my hiding place and dashed into the dining room. "Vance!" I cried, shoving past bemused guests in varying states of deshabille.

In the middle of the room, Vance lay stretched out upon the table, his hands and feet bound to the tops of chairs. One of his hands still held a half-full wine glass quite loosely. His starched white shirt was open to the waist, and his smooth white torso were crisscrossed with faint scars. Upon his chest, a new burn glowed red and angry. The orchid had laid his head lovingly by Vance's hip, and I could hardly fail to notice, with a strange stirring in my belly, that Vance's trousers were undone, and the orchid was languidly stroking his cock, which stood erect, and long and graceful as the rest of him.

"Why, it's the bastion of purity!" laughed the pixie woman. She was standing near Vance's head, holding a doused cigarette, which I now understood to be the cause of Vance's burn--and his scream.

A strange thing happened as Vance turned his head and blinked his long eyelashes at me. His face flamed scarlet; his grip tightened on the wine glass; and his monocle fell out of his eye. Suddenly he wrenched forward, expertly flicking his wrists out of the ropes. The Louis XIV table groaned and suddenly split right down the center, sending Vance crashing awkwardly to the ground. Several partygoers rushed to his side.

"Get him out!" Vance hissed huskily, extending a perfectly manicured hand in my direction.

Tracy and the man dressed as a woman--who, as it turned out, was quite burly--took me by the arms and dragged me into the sitting-room. I did not resist. Obviously I had intruded on something very private for Vance; something he did not wish me to see.

I had thrown the party into a confusion. The women lovers appeared in the doorway of the study, dragged from their pleasures by the commotion. Other guests began to put on their shirts and jackets. Vance appeared in the doorway within minutes, encased in a Chinese silk dressing-gown, and looking as languid and unruffled as ever. He took a long drag from a rose-tipped cigarette and then waved his hand vaguely. This everyone seemed to understand as the signal that the evening had come to its natural close. Those who seemed inclined to linger were hastened along their way by the attentions of the invaluable Currie.

I stood awkwardly in the center of the sitting room. My social education, thorough as it was, had not prepared me for this eventuality. When you are the cause of the premature breaking-up of a sadistic orgy, do you slip out quietly, or stay behind to help clean up? Finally I decided to make my exit on the assumption that Vance would not want to look upon me, now, or, perhaps, ever; and I tacked myself unobtrusively to the end of the outward-bound trickle.

"Not so fast, my dear spoilsport," Vance murmured with mild affection, placing a gentle hand upon my shoulder.

That answered my question.

"Really, I am really, I really am most dreadfully sorry," I stammed when we were alone.

Vance shrugged languidly and draped himself upon a convenient divan. "Now perhaps you understand why I did not wish you to see that."

"Why do you subject yourself to such ill-treatment by those horrible people?" I demanded. "Do you find it--do you need it to--" I was all in a muddle. "Do you _like_ it?" I asked finally.

Vance blew out a ring of pink smoke. "I endure it. Y'see, it is a condition of my aunt's will that I entertain her friends once a month in this unusual manner."

"What?" I knit my brow. "No, it isn't. I've seen your aunt's will."

"Ah, yes; so you have, haven't you?" Vance's voice betrayed no particular embarrassment, or, indeed, any emotion, but he must have been entirely at a loss to attempt such an absurd lie. He offered no further explanation, but simply offered me a cigarette from the silver case he extracted from somewhere in his robe.

I took it gratefully and sat down in a nearby chair. Still he was silent as I lit up with my shaking hands. Finally I said, "If anything, I would have thought you would want to be the binder, not the one being bound."

"It is one of life's amusing ironies," said Vance dispassionately, "that a man's sexual procliv'ties are so frequently at odds with his personal pref'rences."

Vance pulled himself to his feet and strode to the decanter as I stared down at my shoes.

After a moment, I volunteered, "I could never hurt you like that."

Vance seemed surprised. "Why, nobody has asked you to, dear fellow."

"I should like to... I should like to make you happy." This was as close as I ever came to admitting, in so many words, the feelings I bore for Philo Vance.

"So you do," said Vance. He crossed to the chair where I sat, set down upon the arm, and squeezed my arm. "So you do, my dear, every day; simply by existing, don't y'know." And he leaned over and placed a chaste kiss upon my cheek. "Good night, Van."

"Good night," I said, bewildered; and with that I stood, and wandered out the door.

We never spoke of that night again; but, from that night onward, and our affection toward one another was expressed more demonstratively, in words and actions, than it had ever been hitherto. Though I spent more and more of my time with him, for business and pleasure, I was always careful to leave well ahead of any parties to which I was not invited; and on those occasions when I did, unavoidably, walk in upon one of his many strange and unusual pastimes, I elected, for the most part, to extract myself quietly. I felt, finally, that I was truly an intimate of my friend Vance; a keeper of his darkest secrets. I was, of course, wrong; but that is a story for another time.


End file.
